


go down you blood red roses, go down

by AlphaBanana



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaBanana/pseuds/AlphaBanana
Summary: 1720AD. Nathaniel Sewell, youngest captain the Royal Navy has seen in decades, is hunting his first quarry - but “Mad Mickey” may prove more elusive than the Navy, or Nathaniel, are prepared to handle…
Relationships: Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Male Detective & Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Male Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	1. gained his name

“They’ve caught him!”

The barracks are a-buzz, and Nate raises his head wearily.

“Who, Freddie?” The youngest seaman in their makeshift crew is bright-eyed, and even with but three hours of rest his enthusiasm is infectious, encouraging the rest of the groaning bodies to stir and stretch.

“Mad Mickey! They’re bringing him into port today!”

Silence, just for a beat.

And then _chaos_.

“The swine thought he could outrun us—” “That’ll send a message to all the—” “All we need now is O’Malley pretender and we have the set—”

“Enough!” Nathaniel’s voice, normally quiet and measured, carries through the sleeping quarters and strikes like a whip.

“He will be put on trial, as is the way of things here. We uphold the King’s laws, do we not?” A low murmur of assent, before they then begin to ready themselves for the day ahead, which already looks to be far more interesting than they had ever anticipated.

**

Three hours later, as Nate stands at the port along with what feels like half of London, there is a great commotion when Mad Mickey O’Connor, Scourge of the West, is bundled into a carriage by the constabulary to the jeers of the crowd and taken to the city gaol, and Nate cannot help but be curious. Father says that curiosity does not become a modern gentleman - but how can Nate not be curious, when one of the most notorious pirates in recent memory, a thorn in the side of the new royal dynasty, is in captivity in the gaol just across the street from his quarters?

And sooner or later, Nate’s curiosity is rewarded, when his superior officer swaggers into his tiny corner office and beams at him, moustache practically twitching with excitement.

“Brilliant news, Nathaniel,” Major Witherow, a small man in many ways, delights in being able to be so informal with a member of the Sewell clan here, relishes that little bit of power even as he can sense that Nate will outrank him in a matter of years, if that, “you’ve been selected to be the first to interrogate the prisoner.”

There is no doubt who he means, or _what_ that means.

The first contact with a prisoner is crucial. Any slip-ups could mean failure, even death, in later missions. Nate feels a lump rise in his throat at the thought.

“Understood. I shall ready myself and leave at once.”

**

He is short, this pirate king. Much shorter than Nate had been given to understand, given the breathless tenor of reporting surrounding him in the presses. _Navy stunned as Mad Mickey makes off with priceless gems. Golden Harp strikes the coast of Auckland after a string of raids in the Americas. Will O’Connor ever face justice?_

He is also far more striking than Nate had been led to believe, even though the wear of the years at sea is evident on handsome, chiselled features. To add insult to injury, he is also far younger than Nate expected, raven black hair still untouched, for the most part, by frost, and cerulean eyes still keen and sharp, piercing Nate even as he gives an exasperated huff.

“Oh, they’ve sent me a pretty one.” O’Connor’s voice, with its lilting cadences that make Nate think that sirens might be more than a superstition, is rough from his time in captivity (has he been watered recently? Nate makes a mental note to check). The roughness of the voice does nothing to steady Nate’s nerves or calm his senses, certainly not once Nate registers what is being said. “Does that usually work?”

And something in O’Connor’s tone grates on Nate’s nerves, and he surges forward to crowd him—the _prisoner_ , and Nate tries to remember that it is _that way around_ —against the wall, ignoring the clinking of chains and forcing O’Connor to tilt his head back to look him in the eye.

“ _I_ am an _officer_ , I—”

“And _I’m_ the Queen of England – does that mean I get a present?” If O’Connor’s voice had been rough before, it is almost sinfully deep now, and the vibrations of it ricochet around the room, assaulting Nate’s senses until he has to force himself to recover his faculties.

“Have some respect.” The order is quiet, calm, and wipes the smirk off of O’Connor’s face, and his eyes are even more hypnotic up close, the blue deep enough to drown in—

“When have the English ever had any respect for me?”

There’s an earnestness there, a burning _anger_ , in O’Connor’s tone and in his eyes, that Nate did not expect, and for a moment Nate is stunned, pulse pounding in his ears.

And as the silence lingers, he finds himself drawn to the heat of the man, like a beacon in the dank dungeon, until even O’Connor’s bravado seems to falter, cerulean eyes fluttering shut lightly, dark lashes brushing against high cheekbones.

“That’s as may be. I certainly have never—I never considered—I didn’t do any of that.” Nate’s voice strangles in his throat, and Nate does not miss the way O’Connor’s eyes flick down to his lips. And unusually, Nate cannot resist doing the same, eyes tracking the motion of O’Connor worrying his own lower lip with remarkably straight teeth, and they are still _so close_ —

“No, sweetheart, you didn’t,” Nate feels his cheeks heat at O’Connor’s endearment, even as he tries valiantly to squash the reaction down, “but I can think of _plenty of things_ you could be doing instead.”

And if Nate had been in any doubt as to the true meaning of O’Connor’s words, the thigh shoved roughly (clumsily, given the restrictions, though it feels to Nate like a lost art form to rival the opera) against Nate’s clothed length is a fairly clear indication.

Nate's eyes widen, and he cannot help but choke on a breath - and even if there is something weak in him that wants to give in (and he can _see_ in O’Connor’s eyes that he _knows_ ), he remembers himself, remembers his position and the stakes of this interrogation, and leaps back. It is, in truth, only about a foot but it feels like a chasm when the heat that had arced between them cools with the flow of fresh air (as fresh as the dungeon can manage, at least). Nate runs a hand through his hair, feeling it catch on a broken pin, and he scowls as he pulls it loose.

“Business, then.” O’Connor smiles, and it is a lazy, _dangerous_ thing, and Nate cannot help but feel as if _he_ is the bounty that O’Connor is chasing.

**

Their interview lasts for a few more hours, Nate growing increasingly frustrated, in more ways than one, at O’Connor’s— _Mickey_ , he insisted at the two-hour mark, _call me Mickey_ —almost uncanny ability to play him like a fiddle. Sometimes it becomes more and more unclear just _who_ is interrogating _who_.

“I almost feel honoured to have one of the famous Sewells here with me.”

Nate almost falls off of his stool in shock. “What—but I didn’t—”

“No, but one of your fellows out there did before you came.” Mickey nods, with some difficulty, to the doorway, and Nate rolls his eyes, tries to stop his lips from twitching at Mickey’s infectious grin and fails, although the smile dies on his lips at Mickey’s next words.

“I—This will sound strange, but I was sorry to hear of your fiancée. Were it up to me, we would never lose those we love.” Nate winces, Arabella’s passing still recent, a scab that he cannot help but pick at.

“Have you—”

“Many. Famine will do that to a community.” Mickey’s tone is hard again, blue eyes staring fixedly at the cracks in the wall at his side.

A long silence lingers, longer than the first and far more tense, until Nate stands with a sigh.

“We’re done here.”

Nate manages to step away, clear his head a little, and it is only with his back turned facing the door, as he waits for Blythe to release him, that he hears a small chuckle.

“We’re nowhere _near_ done, sweetheart.”

**

The next day, there is a commotion in the barracks when Nate wakes for an entirely different reason.

“Bastard, we thought we—” “But how, the gaol—” “How does the bastard do it?”

Nate sees Freddie then at his bedside, and sits up, groaning as he tries to pick apart the tangled threads of panicked conversation.

“What happened, Freddie?”

The boy looks anxious, eyes sparkling with anxious, unshed tears. “O’Connor’s gone. In the night. The watchmen have been flogged, but all of them swear blind that they had nothing to do with it, even though it looks like he just walked out—”

 _Oh_.

And Nate is already on his feet, tugging on his uniform, and striding out to the goal.

When he arrives, the cell has clearly been combed for evidence, but Nate’s eyes can just make out a small scrap of parchment in between the flagstones underneath the chains, and he unfolds it to see.

> _Nathaniel,_
> 
> _Catch me if you can._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Mickey_


	2. keeping sharp lookout

Half of the London barracks volunteers to be part of the taskforce assigned to finding Mickey, and Nate is no exception - not least when he discovers that the prize is more money than even he would know how to spend, and the opportunity for the advancement that Nate’s father craves for him.

Most of the Navy believe he has fled to the countryside, to take advantage of one of the smaller ports so that he can make haste back to the Golden Harp, thought to be docked somewhere off the coast of the Isle of Man.

Nate does not merely _believe_ otherwise, he _knows_ otherwise.

It starts, as it did before, with a note.

A small scrap of parchment, neatly folded and with no distinctive seal, delivered without a postage mark directly to his Greenwich townhouse. Nate has to stop himself from spitting out his _Longjing_ when he sees the penmanship, and he almost cuts himself on his letter-opener in his haste to read—

> _Nathaniel,_
> 
> _I see that the barracks are quite deserted now, with all your fellows in the countryside. You must be lonely._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Mickey_

Tucks the note into his waistcoat, feels it almost burn a hole there next to his heart, and sweeps out of his townhouse, feeling as if a pair of piercing blue eyes are but one more added to those that follow his every movement, wait for his smallest misstep—

The hours pass into days, and still there is no sign of Mickey, until Nate feels he may as well be chasing a phantom.

Until quite suddenly, there are reports of Mickey in a riverside tavern, and Nate and some of his crew dutifully troll over to find—

 _Nothing_.

If Mickey ever _had_ been here, he is not now – though Nate fancies he senses the ghost of Mickey’s presence in the air…quite how, through the dense pipe smoke and river stench, will remain ever a mystery.

His senses, however befuddled by the aromas and sights around him, are apparently shrewd enough for that, as the landlady, blonde as a wheat field in summer, bustles up to him and dips into a shallow, informal curtsy, before shoving a note into his hand.

“Said I was to give you this.” Her face is a little drawn, as if malnourished, though she tries to smile – and not for the first time does Nate feel almost guilty at his good fortune.

“Where did he go?” He begs before he can stop himself, and it is as if prison bars fall over the woman’s eyes, what warmth had been in her eyes fading along with her voice.

“Please – if you know, tell me.” The desperation in his tone makes her pause for a moment, before she purses her lips and returns to her barrels with a sigh.

Nate gives his own sigh and opens the note.

> _Nathaniel,_
> 
> _We should share a drink sometime – if you can catch me._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Mickey_

Nate resists the urge to yell, even with all of these people’s eyes on him, nearly scrunches up the note in his frustration—then pauses, folds it delicately and places it in his waistcoat, next to the first, which he has carried since receiving it.

At the daily briefings, what few men have remained in London look dog-tired, even as the Major tells them all that their fellows will be returning post-haste from the countryside.

Nate nods along, though he cannot help the way the muscle in his jaw twitches at the thought of the “grave punishments” that the Major promises will be meted out on Mickey and any of his crew that they can find, cannot help the fear that courses through him that these notes will be found, that he will be thought _complicit_ in whatever Mickey has planned—

_Where the hell is the man?_

There is something almost primal about Nate’s _need_ to find him, the need to find him _first_ before the rest of the Navy falls on his head, and on more than one occasion in the evenings before bed does he drift off to the hazy half-thought-half-dream that he can _see_ Mickey before him, can touch, can _taste_ —

Madness. All of it, _madness_.

It takes a week for them to hear any intelligence on Mickey, and the news, when it eventually comes, makes his heart sink.

Even Freddie, normally fizzing with enthusiasm, sounds apprehensive as he tries to draw Nate into conversation. “Shall we—”

“No, Freddie.” Nate’s voice is firm, and more assured than he feels – but Freddie is still half a boy, and even if he will need to be taught the ways of manhood soon, Nate cannot bring himself to hurl that particular bucket of ice water over the boy, not like this.

“I’ll go alone. Surprise him, and return him to the gaol.” Said out loud, like that, Nate can almost believe that that is what will happen.

 _Almost_.

And so, Nate is stood alone, outside a quiet, unassuming townhouse which, unbeknownst to most of the inhabitants of this residential street, is in fact a brothel – one renowned among his father’s circle for its discretion.

He mounts the stairs, and politely refuses offers from a pair of undeniably pretty girls, instead climbing the stairs and pausing outside one of the rooms.

The familiar slap of skin on skin rings out (and Nate is hardly green, he _knows_ how it should sound when there are two but there are _more than that_ , the grunts and groans of pleasure beyond the door in front of him are louder, overlapping as their bodies surely must be, and Nate _should not be listening_ —), the pace frantic as moans and sighs harmonise and build to a crescendo—

And then, a trio of roars of completion, Mickey’s loudest of all, and Nate cannot stand here any longer, cannot tarry here and risk his men coming in to find him.

Bursts in and the three of them are on the bed, with their backs to the door as they face the bare, wooden wall, all naked as their namedays, and Nate has to force himself to look at the ceiling, to look anywhere other than Mickey’s back muscles, taut and glistening with sweat, Mickey’s fingers still buried in the slit of one of the ladies and the other, the one that Mickey had been fucking—

—is, in fact, a _man_ . And now, Nate must _really_ force himself to look at the ceiling, as Mickey turns around to smile at Nate, still very much bare, the muscles of his torso relaxing and contracting as he calms his breathing. If Nate were to look further down, to where the hair from Mickey’s torso meets the dark thatch of hair above his cock (which he _will not_ , he is a gentleman—) he might _see_ it, still slick with arousal and clove oil and—

That does not bear thinking about.

“Like what you see?” Mickey’s voice is rough, from satisfaction and exertion, even as he dismisses his two companions with a smile and a wink, and even as he makes no effort to move, allowing his eyes to move down Nate’s body as if he wished they were his hands instead.

Nate fixes his eyes to the far wall and manages to keep his voice level. “The panelling in these rooms is rather nice for a whorehouse. I ought to think of installing something similar.”

Tries and fails not to let his lips quirk in a smirk at Mickey’s hearty laugh, before shaking his head to dispel his distraction as well as his merriment.

“Dress yourself. I have to arrest you.” Nate is _proud_ , almost, at how steady his voice is now, even as he chances a look at Mickey, sees his muscles coil and release like a cat as he stands, posture proud even as the sweat and oil on his skin make him shimmer, an oasis in the low candlelight.

“Maybe it would be in both our interests. For you to arrest me, that is.” Nate cocks his head in confusion at this, for this is some sort of _trick_ , it _has_ to be—

Mickey’s grin is catlike, white teeth gleaming and blue eyes glittering in the darkness. “I’d be entirely at your mercy.”

 _There it is_ , a distant, still lucid part of Nate’s mind supplies, _there’s the rub_ and _oh_ , he cannot think of _rubbing_ at a time like this, feels the muscles in his throat almost _spasm_ as he tries to—

“I—” Mickey stalks closer to Nate, rendering all attempts at speech utterly useless, and _God above_ , but the man is still naked, even as he walks close enough to touch, close enough to ki—

Nate has to shake his head when he tries to speak again. “Of c—”

 _That_ valiant attempt at speech is cut short by thick fingers, still smelling of cloves and so much more, running down the centre line of Nate’s uniform, slowly enough that Nate fancies he can _feel_ the other man’s calloused fingertips on his skin. Nate’s eyes flutter closed briefly, giving him just enough strength to be able to speak.

“Of course, I have to arrest y—what kind of a—”

Now it is Mickey’s turn to smirk, and Nate abruptly has the urge to occupy this man’s lips in another way, feeling his tongue wet his lower lip on instinct, feeling a surge of _something_ he dare not name at the way Mickey’s pupils swallow blue irises whole as they track the motion of his tongue, midnight conquering the sea at dawn.

“Then, would you like me to dress?” Mickey’s voice is still sinfully rough, still scrapes over Nate’s senses, and Nate takes an inadvisably large breath, his lungs now full of the scent of him, this man who has no regard for propriety or reason or _anything_ which Nate has held dear until now, and _yet_ —

 _And yet_.

“I—” Nate swallows _hard_ around the lump in his throat, tries to remember any number of reasons why Mickey should cease this even as Nate’s blood is singing in a way it only ever has at sea.

“I think you should.” Nate is impressed with how level his voice is, how steady he appears, even if there is a glint in sapphire eyes that seem to _see_ him in a manner to which he is not yet accustomed.

“That’s not quite the same thing, is it, sweetheart.”

_No, it is not._

“Put your damn clothes on.” Nate manages to bite the words out through gritted teeth, and Mickey takes mercy on him for the first time since meeting him. He steps away to fish his clothes out from the haphazard piles made when the three of them (God, there were _three of them_ —) undressed.

“As you _command_ , captain.” Mickey’s voice is sinfully rough now, has dropped to an impossibly low octave, and Nate watches as if entranced as he pulls simple black slops over muscled legs, and the slops would have been baggy on any other man, yet seem to cling to Mickey’s form in something like an embrace. Mickey smirks at Nate’s attention, takes his time to tuck his cock into the French fly before leaning back to retrieve his shirt, his torso flexing in a way that made Nate’s breath stick in his throat for a mere moment.

“Hurry up.” Nate’s voice is thick with a want that he cannot pretend he does not feel and yet _must_ , even as Mickey’s deft fingers move to conceal more and more of the skin Nate wants to feel under his own hands.

“Patience. Good things come,” and here Mickey lingers on the word long enough for Nate to feel his cheeks heat, “to those who wait.”

 _Finally_ , the pale expanse of skin is concealed once more, and Nate finds the air a little less stifling. Mickey remains seated on the bed and Nate can feel his irritation begin to grow, pulsating behind his rib cage.

“Come _here_.” Nate tries to inject some authority into his tone, as his father and his commanding officers would, and is pleasantly surprised at the dark flush that spreads over Mickey’s high cheekbones.

Mickey comes to him, stands close enough that the heat radiates off of his body, and his eyes are heavy and lidded when he looks up at Nate – or, more accurately, at Nate’s lips, and Mickey’s own are parted lightly, enough to make Nate’s breath hitch.

Mickey raises up slightly on his toes, and it takes no effort at all for Nate to dip down and meet him, and _this_ is how it should have felt all those times before, this is what the singers describe, lightning zinging down his spine until heat pools in his belly. Nate gasps, and Mickey growls, deep and throaty, as he puts a hand on the back of Nate’s neck and laps at him with his tongue, _moans_ at the taste of him—

Nate is so consumed by the swirl of emotions and sensations that he almost does not register when the kiss ends, eyes still closed and lips tender enough to be called _swollen_ , and his heart is certainly swollen, thrumming against the confines of his rib cage, and he dare not think about any _other_ kinds of confines—

“We must do this again sometime, sweetheart.” And there is no mocking in Mickey’s tone, only a dark promise infusing a voice so husky it makes Nate’s blood heat, until he realises—

Until he realises that Mickey is speaking to him from where he is straddling the windowsill, halfway to freedom once more, even as blue eyes trace Nate’s form appreciatively.

“No, you can’t—" Nate stops himself just in time before he can blurt out the end of the sentence ( _you can’t leave me here, you can’t leave me like this_ ), and a quiet understanding flares in Mickey’s eyes, even as he tries to restore his usual smooth grin.

“I’ll see you soon enough, sweetheart. You can count on that.” The grin seems a little more forced as Mickey climbs out onto the ledge outside, and then drops onto a stack of barrels, before mounting a waiting horse with ease and thundering off into the night.

And Nate is left standing in the room, alone and still half-hard, and the bitter taste of failure seems to meld with the taste of Mickey, _Mickey,_ **_Mickey_ ** still on his lips, an indelible stain.


	3. look away to windward

It has been two months since he let Mickey O’Connor slip through his fingers like water.

Nate keeps his notes safe in his shirt always, and he cannot decide if the innocuous weight of them against his heart strengthens or crushes him, even as he and his crew take to the seas again to pursue the Golden Harp, sailing on the Warrington and feeling ever more adrift.

Mickey— _ O’Connor _ , Nate calling him Mickey, even in the recesses of his own mind, is  _ dangerous _ , and half of why they are in this mess in the first place—had not been seen in weeks, reportedly docking in Nassau and Cape Canaveral and Santos, always three steps ahead of the Navy’s ships. Morale has been sinking, tensions rising, and Nate has had to break up more fistfights this week alone than in all his time as a captain. The accountant tells him that they will not be able to pay the crew after next month. With the rations as low as they are, Nate wonders whether they will even  _ survive _ until next month.

And then, as if an angel has heard his prayers—

“Ship!”

The boy in the crow’s nest’s voice is breaking but it is loud enough yet to be heard even in Nate’s quarters, even over the steady downpour, and he springs from his desk to snatch a spyglass from Mr. Jenkins.

“It’s her.” Nate’s voice is but a breath, but loud enough that the call goes up around the crew, and Nate orders the ship to change course (even as his Quartermaster scowls in worry), feeling drawn to the outlaw ship as if by a magnet, and for a moment, all of the strife of the past two months is forgotten.

**

For a moment.

Normally when two ships meet at sea they come together almost as lovers, meeting in the middle with something as gentle as a kiss.

This is very different.

The Golden Harp is a faster ship, able to turn herself and face the Warrington with her new battering ram and the Warrington, old and grand and  _ slow _ , cannot hope to move in time—

It’s a miracle that they still have a hull at all.

Before much longer they are being boarded, for the first time in Nate’s career, and the fighting is brutal, blades slicing into flesh and muskets blowing crimson confetti all over the decks until it is even more difficult to stand on already rain-slick boards. Nate tries to shoot to wound rather than kill, tries to fire at legs and hands, but the fighting is too intense for a clear shot and so he draws his sabre, still sharp and practically untested, and—

And then Nate sees him, fierce and free and smug as  _ shit _ , ebony hair wild as he parries thrusts from two of Nate’s men at once until he meets Nate’s eye and has the audacity to  _ wink _ .

They circle each other for ten seconds or ten thousand, for all Nate knows. The time seems to stretch like spiderwebs and Nate is  _ ensnared _ , drawn in as if facing Charybdis.

His sabre whips out, but O’Connor’s own is there to meet it, and the blow glances off to the side. Tries again, advances a little further - but O’Connor is tried and tested, the years at sea proving a formidable teacher as Nate is abruptly on the back foot, being forced back step by step (though it is no foreign feeling for Nate to feel the need to retreat from this man’s honeyed attacks) in a dance for which Nate, unusually, has not been taught the steps.

A failed thrust draws Nate in further than before, and in a moment their blades are locked in an embrace that entices Nate far too much, the proximity almost intoxicating. O’Connor’s blade seems to slip, and Nate dares to advance, pressing his blade more firmly against the other.

Until he realises that O’Connor’s stance is steadfast and true, and that all Nate has done is fall further into O’Connor’s orbit, and now that he is this close he can see a smirk curving lips that Nate  _ knows _ are softer than they look, and it would be  _ so easy _ to sink into that embrace once more, now he has had a taste—

But he dare not.

O’Connor’s voice is low, just for their ears, and the rumble of Mickey’s voice shakes Nate to his core.

“You just couldn’t stay away, could you, sweetheart?”

Before Nate can blink, his sabre is ripped from his hand with one twist of O’Connor’s wrist, powerful and assured, and Nate must watch it skitter across the deck, as lost as Nate feels.

**

Some of Nate’s former crew choose to join the Golden Harp, with the promise of better wages and not having to answer to naval officers again, while others are given a small craft from the Golden Harp and told to make for shore. They do not need to be told twice.

Nate sees all of this from where he is bound at the mast, arms raised and tied behind his head and feet spread wide. He raises his eyes to the heavens to avoid showing anyone the shame that burns there, and manages not to look at another soul until night falls and Mickey O’Connor is standing before him.

“I don’t know if this makes it better, but you gave us the closest fight we’ve had in months.” O’Connor’s tone is conversational almost, and Nate cannot help but scowl, forgetting his manners for a moment.

“You’re right.” Nate makes a note of the way Mickey’s— _ O’Connor’s _ —eyes widen when he is surprised, and of the way his eyes darken and narrow with promise when Nate continues. “It  _ doesn’t  _ make it better.”

“Come on, sweetheart. Fair’s fair.” Mickey’s tone is as dark as his eyes, pupils wide from the dark (and something else that Nate does not dare name), and the moon glints in them as he taunts Nate.

“You’re  _ pirates _ .  _ Nothing _ about this is fair.” Nate manages to spit the words out, even as he finds his eyes tracking the shorter man’s movements. Narrows them when Mickey jabs a calloused finger at Nate’s chest, still displayed in his bounds.

“Now,” and this time Mickey lets his index finger linger in the line between Nate’s chest muscles, smirking at the way Nate’s throat visibly tightens, “ _ that’s _ where you’re wrong. Life here is infinitely more fair than any way of life you’ll find on land.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” Nate rolls his eyes, even though he knows it is dangerous, and the finger that had been burning a trail down the centre line of Nate’s chest changes its course, carving a path instead to Nate’s chin to force Nate to meet blue eyes that are soft beyond all imagining.

“Would you ever doubt me?”  _ No _ . The thought comes unbidden, even as the word starts to shape Nate’s lips, and Nate has to roll his lips together to silence himself. Mickey tracks the motion once more, and seems to have to shake himself to regain his catlike confidence, blue eyes filled with a mirth that Nate can’t help but  _ hate _ in that moment.

“I knew you’d come.” Mickey’s voice is almost thick with triumph, and Nate feels his spine tense even as his heart flutters around the edges.

“How could you have  _ possibly  _ known that?”

“Because you’re a good soldier, and you want to help people. Especially if you think it’s your fault.” Nate’s mouth opens and closes noiselessly at the assessment, even as Mickey continues.

“You weren’t the only one doing the interrogating that day, sweetheart.”

Nate tries to regain some control over himself and his traitorous heart rate whenever he hears the endearment by insisting, “Nate. My name is  _ Nate _ .”

Mickey smiles, and lets the name out on a breath. “Nate.”

And  _ oh _ , Nate has miscalculated, because something about hearing his name in Mickey O’Connor’s mouth feels strangely,  _ powerfully _ intimate, beyond anything else Nate has ever experienced.

Nate’s turmoil must show on his face, because Mickey moves closer to him and that is  _ immeasurably  _ worse, and now Nate’s heart is racing and he does not know how to stop it.

And apparently, neither does Mickey, and it is with a quiet fascination that Nate watches Mickey’s fingers tremble slightly with repressed want when, instead of smirking, Mickey flushes and rubs a large hand over the back of his neck.

“You’ll stay in my quarters. There are fewer rats there.”

“But—I thought—” The tales Nate has heard about what passes for a gaol on a pirate ship do not bear thinking about, and something Nate cannot quite parse passes over Mickey’s face before he regains his composure.

“You thought wrong, sw— _ Nate _ .”

Mickey’s eyes trace Nate’s frame once more, looking in concern as a shiver runs through Nate from more than the cold, before he orders one of his men to cut Nate loose from the ropes that bind him to the mast, while keeping those around his wrists intact. The knife wielded by the crew member, Mulligan, is wicked sharp, and looks dangerous enough that Nate does not dare try anything—or, at least, that is what he tells himself as he is led into Mickey’s quarters, feeling like he is being led to the lion’s den.

The chambers are small but comfortable, with small trinkets scattered about and ledgers and papers neatly stacked and shelved - nothing like the debauched luxury that the British presses had led the public to believe, and Nate looks around as he waits for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“Home, sweet home.” There is a proud tinge to Mickey’s voice, deep and rich as treacle - and he seems different here, more relaxed, a little softer around the edges, as if out of focus. The smile Mickey gives Nate makes Nate’s heart flutter around the edges before he remembers that he is,  _ in fact _ , Mickey’s  _ prisoner _ , and—

And almost before he can blink, Mickey has taken his own knife (produced from  _ where,  _ Nate could not say) and expertly cut loose Nate’s wrists, before moving over to a liquor cabinet.

“I fear I have only rum - will that suffice?” Mickey’s eyebrow is raised, but it is as if Nate’s mind cannot take in the words, and he can but utter one word in response.

“What?”

“Will you drink, Nate?” Mickey’s tone is still conversational, even as he pours himself a large measure, and Nate cannot resolve the two in his mind, with all that he has been told, no matter what he tries.

“But I’m your—”

“You’re my  _ guest _ \- and despite what you clearly think of my profession,” and here the conversational tone in Mickey’s lilting cadences flattens, shoulders tensing in anticipation, “I am hardly a monster.”

“I never said—” Nate must take a deep breath, even if that forces the scent of the man into his lungs (he is the sea, vast and unknowable and yet so  _ familiar _ —

“Fine, rum is—fine. Thank you.”

They talk for the rest of the evening - of past loves and the sting of loss and  _ books _ . Mickey taught himself to read from newspapers and a battered copy of  _ The Successful Pyrate _ , and whatever ice Nate had still had in his heart for the man opposite him, sprawled lazily on a divan with his cheeks flushed, melts away as if under a summer sun. Nate’s smile softens, even as his laughs grow ever louder as the rum thrums in his veins.

After a small silence, Mickey smiles, eyes glinting in the low candlelight, and gestures lazily to his bed.

“You can take that. I’m fine here.” If it had been two months ago, Nate would have assumed that there was a catch, that Mickey would be in his bed in mere moments. But Mickey remains prone on the divan, even as thick, ebony lashes flutter down to graze high cheekbones, and Nate feels the polite refusal, drilled into him since birth, strangle in his throat at the sight.

“I—”   
“You need not be a gentleman here, Nate. Take the damn bed.” Mickey opens his eyes then, turns his head to face Nate and there is something almost  _ regretful _ in his voice when next he speaks.

“As recompense.”

A long pause follows, as Nate weighs up his options and Mickey waits for Nate to capitulate. And, eventually, he does.

“Goodnight, Mickey.” The events of the day had begun to catch up with Nate, and he falls asleep almost instantly, nearly missing Mickey’s soft confession, whispered on a breath.

“I’m sorry I left you.”


End file.
